As American as Apple Pie
by icearrows1200
Summary: He's an adult, really; America has no need to prove that to anyone- except for one, and sometimes proof isn't what's needed. A dinner, candles over a century old, and apple pie are all quite convincing.


"America, when you invited me over for dinner, I was expecting you to lay out McDonalds and rubbish, but…" England never finishes his sentence and looks up at America, beaming at him. England touches the table cloth, its texture unique and original feeling, like it must have been homemade. The candles release a soft, yellow glow that casts shadows on the ornate glasses and plates set out meticulously before him. It all has a very rustic, nineteenth century look to it, and England can't help but grin. It's like looking back into American history, something that he has always been opposed to, never bothering to learn.

"Do you like it?" America asks, and the yearn in his eyes is childish, the lift at the end of his sentence unnervingly genuine.

England pauses, glances at the lush green salad, the elegant cup of soup, a glass of red wine as dark as blood, the golden chicken not yet cut into. His jaw is slack- he's _very_ impressed, almost unbelievably so. Of course America had to have had help with this; there's no way he could have ever done this by himself.

"It's nice," he says almost apathetically. America would have to prove himself into the evening for England to actually admit that he is in awe of this setup.

America's expression doesn't fall like England expected it to, for anything less than enthusiasm is nothing he ever took well, and he pulls out a chair for England to sit in.

"France helped a little, I hope you don't mind…" There it is. America laughs nervously to himself as England takes his seat. The proximity in which America is to him makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably; chills run up his spine when America touches his shoulder in passing. Damn himself for that- his body is always so impulsive, reacting in unwarrented ways. Unlike the casual style America usually wears, he's now wearing a collared shirt and tie with recently pressed slacks and his hair is combed nicely, despite the one unruly cowlick.

"I don't mind," England says with a sigh. Of course he minds- maybe that frog could cook well, but England doesn't like the idea of him touching any food that he or America eats. (In reality, it would've been another point in America's favor if he had cooked by himself, but they both knew that was impossible.) As much as England doesn't like to admit it, this whole dinner is a test: America is proving himself to him, and England is taking notes on how well he does.

"Good, good," America says, in that small-talk style that Americans are somehow so fond of. He almost sounds flustered, and England takes satisfaction in hearing it.

"So, there's a really nice salad that France called _Poulet et Salade d'Amande_ ," he butchers the pronunciation, "and an Italian soup like the ones we serve at _Olive Garden_ , red wine that France himself picked out so I know it's good, and American-style rotisserie chicken." He says the last part pridefully, and England has to admit that it all does smell wonderful and just the look of it is making his stomach talk to him.

America takes his seat across from him and suggests that England serve himself first- he is the guest, after all. As he tenaciously lifts the salad towards his plate with finesse, England feels his chest and face heat up- America is watching him, a smile playing on his lips. His neck heats up and he looks up to meet his gaze, causing America to only smile broader. _American hospitality, ha._ He feels very welcome in America's house, as if he isn't a guest, but _lives_ there.

England fills up his plate conservatively; he knows he'll like the food if France made it, but he doesn't want to appear gluttonous. But looking over at America, he knows he won't eat as much as _he_ will even if he takes double of everything, so he puts an extra piece of chicken on his plate. Steam rises from it, the scent enticing as he returns the carving knife to the bird.

America fills his plate up rather quickly, and obviously wants to impress England with the large helping of salad he's taken. The salad is beautiful, glowing with freshness and dotted with almonds and bits of meat. England wonders why France hasn't ever cooked for him, in those brief moments when they're not at each other's throats. (Both senses of this are applicable here.)

When America has finished getting the chicken, which is nearly falling off his plate, he looks at England, grins, "Shall I say grace?"

England is taken slightly aback. Despite knowing that America as a country is one of the more religious in the western world, he never thought of the man across from him as being religiously affiliated. "Of course," He responds, but doesn't mean to sound so frazzled.

"If you don't want me to, then I-"

"No, no, go ahead," England waves his hand dismissively, feeling rather embarrassed. He himself was a protestant at times, after a long history of wavering between religions; he sometimes goes to church out of respect and tradition, but it means little to him. From what England knows of American politics and culture, many of them seem very attached to their ways.

England bows his head and America gives a quick prayer, thanking God for a lovely meal and for having England as a friend and ally (England's heart just about pounds out of his chest). He briefly mentions being thankful for a wonderful population and a rich, fortunate history. England lifts his eyes and sees that America is done, and that sudden demeanor is gone. He could have lied about those things he just said in an effort to impress his guest, but something tells England that America is not one to lie in prayer.

"Great, now let's eat!" America exclaims, giving England a reason to crack a smile. After a few bites of the salad, he visibly becomes disinterested in it and takes a few spoonfuls of the soup. England enjoys the food immensely, cursing France mentally as he eats. It's rich in herbs, activating the secret love he has for foreign food in his whole mouth; he chews it slowly and savors the almost arousing taste.

England looks up at America and finds himself grinning, "What, don't you like tomatoes, America?"

America looks up, his mouth full, and his face turns the color of the tomato slices he's removed from his soup and put on the plate. Poor lad- he's on edge.

He swallows,"What? Oh, umm… no, I don't like them," he laughs half-heartedly and sits up straight, setting down his utensils, "I asked France to leave them out, but he said it would ruin the flavor if he did."

"True," England nods (he has no clue whether it's true or not, he has no cooking skills) and smiles, setting down his utensils as well. He's made a dent in his soup and salad and eaten the chicken all the way to the bone. America eats the chicken with his fingers, and so England does the same, despite how it goes against every gentlemanly grain in his body. The cloth napkin is filthy with the oils from the chicken, making England feel a little ashamed, for it's a very beautiful, authentic napkin. But America's is in a similar state, so he thinks America will be happy with him for it.

"America, can I ask you a question?"

The speed at which America looks up and says yes is slightly unnerving, but he continues anyway, "The decorations look remarkably like they're over a hundred years old, and they're very good quality. Where did you get them?"

America's face lights up instantly, taking it that England _does_ like this meal and the setting. "Yes," he exclaims enthusiastically, leaning in to talk more directly to England. His eyes are a deep blue, something England hasn't ever noticed before, "They're very old, almost pre-civil war era. I borrowed them from the White House storage- I used to live there, you know- and I thought you'd like to see them, considering we never really talked during the eighteen-hundreds.

The way America is passionate about his history is endearing, England finds, because he begins talking about how he is baffled by how the women could make such intricate designs and _he_ wishes he could do that. He waves his hands wildly when he talks about his civil war that was so terrible and gruesome; but America seems incredibly proud that he won and never let the Confederacy break off, never let himself split in half. Over a century of innovation, war, politics, and growth has happened since America left him during that terrible day in Yorktown until they spoke again in World War One, and England is humbled and mortified that he had missed it all for his own petty pride.

Maybe America is no longer a child in the way he was when he rebelled (which still makes England cringe to this day); he supposes now that the lad is an adult, able to tread water on his own. But it doesn't stop England from regretting having missed so much. America is his friend now, though, and that's what matters. He's not a child, not a son, and so he is valuable as an ally.

As if reading his thoughts, America stops ranting and his expression softens, "England, I'm glad we're friends. I know it took a long time, and I'll never apologize for becoming independent, but I'm glad you're here willingly, because you mean a lot to me."

The look on America's face, the way his eyes are drilling into England's own, how his lips are twisted into a meek smile, how his brow is furrowed with unsure concern- it all makes an uncomfortable lump form in England's throat and so he swallows painfully. It takes a moment before he realizes how loud his heart is pounding, that maybe America can hear it and know how confused he's feeling. Really, he's sweating and his wine glass is shaking in his hand, yet he doesn't know why. Does he really deserve to have these bodily reactions for no reason?

Ah, but he does have a reason.

America just told him that he _means_ something to him, which is something England has never been on the receiving end of. And of course, a response is necessary, but he hasn't a clue as to where to start. With a realization akin to being punched, he becomes aware that even if his mouth wasn't dry with fear right now, he still doesn't know how he feels.

But he miraculously, thankfully, doesn't have to think about what to feel or say, because America is apparently satisfied with the bitter awkwardness in the air, and changes the subject.

"I made dessert," America mumbles, and England instantly feels heavy guilt at making him feel so obviously embarrassed. _He's_ the guest here, he's the one who had a meal prepared for him, and he's the one who is too proud and spiteful to be courteous and appreciative. He should never have come here, his relationship with America is too unsteady to make this at all enjoyable.

"Lovely," England says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. If he can't be at least apologetic, he can at least be grateful.

America quickly stands up and strides into the kitchen and England catches a glimpse of his face, beet-red, and his gut lurches at seeing what he's caused. It isn't entirely his fault, though; America could've made this just an innocent endeavor, but instead had to ruin it with whatever goal he has in mind here- does he think that a candle-lit dinner with antique decorations and some emotional conversation will fully repair their relationship? They are already close allies, so this isn't a set-up by America's boss to get something from the United Kingdom.

By the time America returns, England is so deep in thought that he doesn't even notice him until he sets down the pie in front of him. England instantly sits up straight, looks at the pie, then to America and back to the pie. It's absolutely golden, the crust is perfectly textured and crisscrossed, and the smell of apples is wafting and swirling around the room suddenly. It's steaming when America hands him a section of it beside a perfectly spherical ball of vanilla ice cream. Suddenly, England feels his face heat up for the umpteenth time that night because this is practically an American delicacy: apple pie and ice cream. He knows he'll probably have to loosen his belt by the end of this evening with all he's eaten, but it doesn't stop him from nearly drooling over the plate.

"America, wow, this is…" Like earlier, he is unable to finish his sentence.

"It's just apple pie," America laughs, unsure of what England is getting at.

"What I mean is that it's like going to Germany and asking for sauerkraut… no, never mind, bad example," England studies America's expression and finds it unreadable.

"If what you mean is that it's considered fancy American cuisine, then I get you," America says with relief, his voice lifting a little, "But it's more considered 'homestyle cooking' than fancy. But I appreciate that you're honored."

America sits down and serves himself a piece and England notices he's brought a porcelain pot of coffee out for the two of them to share. While England much prefers tea, he knows that this American staple tastes best with sugary American desserts. America reaches across the table and hands England his coffee, taken black with one sugar, which has already been put in, surprisingly. Since when does America know how England takes his coffee? To his astonishment, America takes his coffee black, unlike how England assumed he drinks it: with more cream and sugar than coffee itself.

When England tastes the pie, despite how it burns his taste buds at the touch, the flavor seems to alert every part of his tongue and he almost sighs from how satisfying it is to chew the crust. It's soft and palpable, but crunchy enough to feel fresh; it tastes like pies from bakeries that no longer could be found on every street corner, it tastes like history. But remarkably, there is no hint of French influence with this one; all of the spices are genuinely American.

"It's simply marvelous," England comments before he can help himself, and he takes another bite without thinking about it, "Tell me, what did France say about keeping this recipe original and not dazzling it the way he likes to?" He uses his fork to take a chunk out of the scoop of ice cream.

America pulls at his collar anxiously, "I, uh, actually didn't have France help me with this. I knew he'd want to change the recipe and I really didn't want him to change this one."

England stops in the middle of a sip of his coffee, sets down the mug and raises his brow, "Then, you made this by yourself?"

There's a pause of silence,"Yeah, I did."

He's honestly shocked at this, but he knows America isn't lying because it certainly doesn't taste store-bought, it doesn't taste French, and just by the look on America's face, he knows he's telling the truth.

"Well," England smiles endearingly, and takes yet another bite; the slice is almost gone, to his disappointment and he is so stuffed he couldn't possibly have another slice, "I'm very impressed, America."

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

They finish their pie, coffee, and ice cream in a comfortable silence, and England no longer feels like he's testing America- he's a guest, eating American pie in a beautiful setting. However, if this was a test, America would have passed, but just barely. The candle is almost down to a wick in a puddle of wax in its glass enclosure, and England sits back in his chair with a sigh that's nearly tangible. Now would be a good time to loosen his belt- he can feel his stomach pushing against the rim of his pants and looks forward to the morning when he'll be less full, the food having passed through his stomach. How do Americans eat like this all the time?

He doesn't loosen his belt, however, because America is watching him intently, with eyes and an expression that England cannot read.

"What?" England asks, and a bashful smile appears on his lips, "What are you looking at?"

Suppressing a laugh, America points at England across the table, "There's pie crumbs on your lips."

Instantly feeling not only embarrassed but greedy for eating so much so quickly, England lifts his sleeve as a reflex to wipe his face but America speaks up.

"No, stop."

Heart racing painfully quick and jaw clenching up, England freezes, a drop of cold sweat running down his back. Mischief is melting into America's expression, forming a raised eyebrow, a grin.

"Hold on," And suddenly America stands up and in one long stride, arrives beside England's chair.

What was he doing? England looks up at America for an answer and his answer is a pair of lips on his own, soft and sweet like the pie. For a moment England can't breathe- his lungs have seized up and he's frozen, his brain goes blank because none of this makes sense, America shouldn't be doing this.

America is kissing him and England pretends that this is unwarranted, that there weren't signs, that this soaring, dancing, _brilliant_ feeling in his chest isn't because his heart has always been aching for this. England tells himself that the way America's lips are moving against his- delicate and meticulous but not tentative, so unlike his personality- is a terrible mistake. The child he is, being so young, America has misinterpreted their friendship and England is encouraging it because without intending to, his hand drops the napkin and he grabs the back of America's head, entangling his fingers in his dark blonde hair, and stops this child's play.

For both their sakes, he _should_ pull back, but he doesn't for some reason that never even crosses his mind. The kiss is no longer innocent, for England is much older, far more experienced (France taught him a thing or two over the years) compared to America's attempt. Soon, he does not think about the implications, instead feeling himself lose balance on his chair as America is pressing into him as if he was looking for some way to get closer; what a young boy he really is, and guilt plagues England for encouraging this child at all.

But guilt isn't enough to put a halt to the way America is ravishing his mouth and stirring up feelings he hasn't felt in a long time. He stands up, the chair falling down in their unsure, chaotic motions as they hardly break apart while England brings himself to his full height. Greedily, wildly, America is running his hands all over the shorter man's back and waist and he works his lips down his neck swiftly and, with some difficulty, undoes the tie that's knotted tightly around England's collar. He feels suddenly freed and rather hot as America does wonders to the unscathed, pale skin with his mouth- he'll have to wear a scarf for a week to cover the mark up.

America has long since thrown his glasses to the ground and now he's grinning at England- that vibrant, golden, charming grin that makes him swoon and his heart drop- and he looks years younger right now; maybe its the lack of glasses that reminds England of the colony he used to have, the colony that humiliated and nearly killed him. Looking at the face hurts more than anything ever could, ever would- so much so that he stops gazing deeply into those vibrant blue eyes and kisses America with more force than before. It throws him off guard, but England is willing to close his eyes and just _feel_ if it means he doesn't have to hurt anymore. He begins tugging at the buttons on the white button-up shirt that suited America perfectly and he seemed to take the hint; soon, England no longer has to worry about that grin carving out his heart because into the night he's covering his mouth to stifle the cries and moans of pure _feeling_ that have been absent for so many years, threatening to escape his lips.

* * *

The bed that England awakens in is very warm to the point where he's sweating beneath the blanket. The window is shut, even though it's summer, but it doesn't stop the weak sunlight from filling the room, warming the carpet and the bed in which he's laying. When he feels the blankets shift beside him, his stomach lurches and England is instantly reminded of the man beside him- the man whose broad, naked back is facing him covered by a thin layer of blonde, coarse hair- and he's instantly terrified, scared to be any closer to America than he already is. Eyes wide and breath halted in his chest, he is frozen in place for a few moments, unable to think, to move, to do anything. He is very much aware of what he's done, conscious of the sudden cold air he feels on his bare body; but most of all _absolutely horrified_ that he spent the night in this bed crying out the name of the former colony that he'd practically raised. It's unforgivable that he'd _let_ himself do this, to comply with it because now, if things don't go smoothly, _centuries_ of rebuilding a relationship will go down the drain.

But the real question is: does he _want_ things to go smoothly? Is he lying in America's bed for any other reason than he feels lonely and wants an output for himself? He can tell himself that he doesn't _need_ America- he's young, naive, a prop- but when he looks at the tousled, unkempt hair and the strong body that's known so little but seen so much, England feels his spirits soar and his heart swell for the man who had last night whispered into the darkness that he _loved_ him. England of course, had no response to that, but that doesn't mean he hadn't blushed fiercely; thinking back to his long existence, has anyone ever told him that?

England is left to his thoughts briefly before he feels an arm, warm and soft, snake around his slim shoulders and he lets out an unintentional shudder.

"Good morning." The genuinity in America's voice is surreal.

"Good morning," England responds instinctively, his gentlemanly habits resurfacing even in situations like this.

The bit of outdoors that England can see through the window at an angle from the bed puts him off, and so he looks away. A New York City morning is not golden like one might be on the English countryside. The air, the light and the room all remind him of steel and the sunlight seems dim, as if it's submitting to the will of man.

"Is something wrong?" America asks, his voice absolutely wrought with panic.

England knows better than to insult New York City; it's practically America's livelihood and he loves it more than his capital, talks about nothing but its wonders and beauty, but he comments anyway, "New York seems too artificial in the morning."

"What?" Is America's only response, as England expects.

"At night it glows, but right now it feels cold and uncaring, almost unwelcoming," England is careful not to make eye contact with America, but the latter obviously is trying very hard to accomplish it.

Remarkably, America somehow understands what England is getting at, "Yeah… it might not be village-like or quaint like a lot of Europe is, but this is what New York has always been like: adhering to the present, growing with every innovation, bustling with business and welcoming immigrants."

The way that America always mentions this city sends chills running down England's spine, though it shouldn't, for it's the land that left _him_. It makes him think of the Statue of Liberty (even though that _frog_ made it) and fireworks, but most of all, this city makes him think of America, the man beside him flashing that God-awful, stomach-churning, _glorious_ grin that makes England want to rip his hair out.

"I understand," Is the only thing England can think of to say.

America graces a hand over England's hairline, caressing his face, "Would you want to go see Central Park today? It's beautiful in summer time. I think the last time you saw it, it was winter."

England sighs, leaning into his touch. Only America's touch has ever made him feel this way. Maybe this feeling, this tightness in his chest and the fire in his gut, has been what he's ignored for all these years since America has grown up. America's expression is soft, and England almost melts. What if… what if he _doesn't_ ignore this feeling that makes him swoon and spin with euphoria?

England smiles and America's grin broadens, "Central Park, hmm? I think I'd like that, America."


End file.
